“What the hell? I’ve been looking all over for you guys,” he cries. He turns to Bethany. “These are my bandmates. We were supposed to meet up, but apparently they’ve been hiding in a brain.”
This will just be a quick hello, she hopes. They will find another, more secluded place to go. She waits patiently, smiling at the bandmates, some of whom apparently have traveled from other states. To her dismay, Amos settles down upon the ground with them. They talk about music, using cryptic language. After fifteen minutes or an hour of this, Amos has made no sign of decamping, and Bethany stretches her arms meaningfully.
“Time to go back to the campsite, I think,” she says.
He looks carefully at her. “Yeah, you look tired. Rest up for tomorrow, it’s a great lineup. I’m gonna hang with these guys awhile, maybe crash at their site tonight.”
She sits for a moment as the boys continue their prattle. Then she rises and exits the brain. She stands outside, dazed. After counting slowly to ten, she makes herself walk away.
Tramping through the woods, she feels newly irritated with the people gallivanting through the trees like elves. Off to one side a great number of neon hammocks dangle like cocoons. Here, she comes across the boys from Old Cranbury, each seated awkwardly in a hammock with an unfamiliar girl. These are girls of the skimpy clothing set, each thoroughly groomed and less-than-beautiful in her own way. They peer suspiciously at her. Kurt already has an arm around the hip of the girl beside him, the hammock swaying. Noah looks as guilty as a puppy caught digging in the yard. He inches away from his companion, but she quickly scoots back against him. Bethany, feeling an odd spike of betrayal, turns away.
When she arrives back at the campsite, she finds Rufus leading the others in a drumming session. Rebekah slinks over and whispers, “We’re about to start.”
“Are you going to do it, too?”
“No, I’m going to stay with Rufus while he does it. I’ll be his sitter, kind of. Well, kind of the sitter for the whole group. Somebody has to stay sober, to keep people calm and make sure they have what they need.”
“Do you think people will throw up? I mean, aren’t the neighbors kind of close?”
“Believe me, we won’t be the only ones vomiting tonight.”
The drumming ceases and the drummers enter one of the tents—a yellow one—in single file. Rufus comes back out with a big insulated jug. He pours the contents into a stock pot and lights the propane stove.
“He’s edgy,” Rebekah confides in Bethany’s ear. “He’s been fasting for a couple days, including sex.”
“Aha.”
“Anyway, you can stay if you want. You can try it yourself, or you can help me sit. We have blankets ready in case people get chills, and a bunch of pails. We’re going to put on a recording of the kind of stuff a curandero would play during the ceremony. There’s an instrument he shakes, like a bunch of dry twigs.”
“A chakapa,” Rufus calls out.
“Right. We’re going to play a recording of a chakapa.”
“Okay. Well, good luck.” Bethany backs away. “I’ll see you when it’s done, I guess.”
The ecstasy of the dance music has completely receded from her veins now. The rejection from Amos has fuzzied her brain, and the bizarre, umbrous doings at the campsite exhaust her. She retreats aimlessly from the yellow tent as Rebekah and Rufus disappear inside.
“Hey,” someone calls, and she turns to see Chris sitting on a log with a beer and a cigarette, the sunglasses still in his hair. She is unaccountably happy to see him.
“Aren’t you going to do it, too?” she asks.
“No fuckin’ way. I’m not going near any of that jungle shit.” He smiles at her and shifts over on the log, patting the place next to him. He reaches into his pocket and offers her a flask of bourbon.
“I thought we weren’t allowed to bring our own liquor in?”
“Shh.” He holds a finger to his lips.
She takes the flask. The first sip burns. It ignites a new indignation at Amos’s behavior, the giant brain and the juvenile hammocks, all the silly toys provided for them as if they were infants. A reckless flame travels through her. She tilts the flask and drinks in quick little gulps. Chris, pleased by this, moves closer and puts a hand on her back.
She finishes the bourbon. “Sorry,” she murmurs, turning to him. His face looms very near. The first kiss is surprisingly gentle, then more insistent but still soft, causing a confused flutter inside her. “C’mon,” he says, lifting her from the log. She steps behind him on rubberized legs toward a dirty white tent.